


The Ghosts We Know

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:53:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7957801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Minister of France, Aramis should have no doubts. But some do linger even so. (post-series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghosts We Know

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to tumblr with the prompt, "Aramis having self-doubts in terms of his position, and wondering if Porthos resents him on some level - the reason he can be Minister now, and be where he is at his boy's side, is because Tréville died in the first place, afterall."

It’s been months since he’s seen Porthos in person. There have been letters – both of an official and unofficial capacity – but it isn’t the same. Aramis isn’t sure how to read the letters, official or unofficial, really. There’s too much about Porthos that can’t be unpacked simply through writing. 

Aramis is nervous. Porthos is coming home today and there are council appointments to consider, the war to consider – but all Aramis can think about is seeing Porthos again, for the first time since their parting at the garrison. 

He’s waiting near the gates, hovering. He isn’t sure when Porthos will arrive, exactly, and it’s a little ridiculous he knows – but he’s anxious. He wants to see him with his own eyes. He wants to see him. 

“Aramis?” a little voice asks and Aramis freezes before turning, looking to see his – the queen’s son looking up at him. 

Aramis smiles and kneels down so he’s eyelevel with the king. “What is it, Majesty?” 

“Will you play with me?” the dauphin asks. “I want to play with swords.” 

Aramis smiles, warmly, eyes darting back towards the gate. He can hardly refuse a request from him. His months here have been good for that, being able to spend time with the dauphin. In another life, perhaps he—

The dauphin is shy. That much Aramis has gathered. He’s quiet, thoughtful – wise, like his mother. That he’d but the request to play into words, so straightforward, is enough for Aramis to hope that the dauphin is growing more comfortable with him. So Aramis can hardly say no. As if he would say no in any circumstance. 

He lets the dauphin run ahead, fetching the play-swords strewn over the lawn. The king presents the longer sword to Aramis with a small, hopeful smile – boyish and young and so devastatingly sweet – and Aramis takes it with a flourish and a deep bow that makes the boy laugh. Aramis feels flushed with happiness, can hardly breathe. This is not the first time the dauphin has invited him to play with him, but it still feels like too much every time. He hopes it doesn’t show too full on his face, so the servants might wonder. 

The king is skilled, for his age and for his utter lack of training. He can dodge back relatively well and Aramis is already thinking about a time when he might teach his son proper sword technique. He lets the boy get a few good jabs at Aramis’ stomach, and Aramis makes sure to make the appropriate ‘oof’ sound and bow into the blow as if it were a real sword, laughing when the dauphin makes a small squeak of surprise at the dramatics. 

“En guarde, your Majesty,” Aramis teases, and ‘attempts’ a parry forward, which sends the dauphin stumbling back with a peel of laughter, delighted. Aramis moves slow enough that the dauphin manages to block the attack without any trouble. 

“En guarde!” he parrots back and then he’s the one pushing forward with unskilled swipes and swings. He leaves himself open entirely, Aramis thinks absently, but he lets the boy advance, stumbling back with as much dramatics as he can muster. 

When he trips over the knee-high hedge row, though – that is entirely genuine, complete with his little shout of surprise as he goes sprawling. The king is at his side immediately, eyes wide.

“Are you alright, Aramis?” he asks. 

Aramis’ head smarts from a rather hard hit to the ground, but he doesn’t say as much – instead, he sends his play-sword up and taps the dauphin gently in the stomach. The dauphin squeaks in surprise and then mimics Aramis – grasping his stomach with a small gasp and flopping down onto the ground. Aramis would be worried if he hadn’t really just kind of flopped into the hedge, keeping him from seriously hurting himself. 

Aramis starts to laugh – can’t help it, delirious with happiness, with longing – and the dauphin starts to laugh, too. It is, quite frankly, one of the best sounds in the world. His son looks like Anne when he laughs, he thinks, and his heart twists up. 

The king’s laughter ends abruptly, however, as he looks up. He stops, blushes up to his ears, and suddenly gets shy – hiding his face, ducking his head so his long hair falls into his eyes. Aramis blinks at the sudden change, and sits up to look for the source of his son’s distress.

Porthos is standing there on the pathway. Aramis has no idea at all how long he’s been standing there. 

“Porthos!” he gasps out in surprise, stumbling to his feet. He nearly trips over the hedge all over again and he knows that there are leaves and dirt clinging to the silk fabric of his coat. His mouth, suddenly, feels dry – and the anxiety from before comes crashing back, made worse by the thought of Porthos standing there watching as Aramis plays with the king. 

The king is still looking a little shy but has seemed to recover. He’s no longer blushing. 

“Your Majesty,” Aramis tells him, hoping to alleviate some of the boy’s nervousness. “This is Her Majesty’s General, Porthos du Vallon. You remember him, don’t you?” 

Porthos dips into a bow when the king looks back over at him. He’s smiling, Aramis realizes, and it helps – some of the tension leaking from his shoulders, some of the nervousness leaving the king’s eyes. Porthos says, “Your Majesty,” in a small murmur and adds, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

The dauphin seems content to be quiet, although he returns the bow and looks more at ease. Aramis suggests that he go with the maids to find his mother and he darts off, leaving Aramis and Porthos alone. 

“How long were you there for?” Aramis asks, not accusing but genuinely distressed. “I was waiting for you, but—”

Porthos offers a small smile. “But you got distracted?” 

Aramis nods. Porthos shrugs and steps forward towards him. He’s not wearing his armor – must have changed out of it before arriving – but is wearing the General’s uniform, lacking the regalia but still looking stupendous in the midday sun. There’s a new scar at his jaw. Aramis feels a pang low in his gut. 

Once close enough, Porthos opens his arms to him – and Aramis folds himself into it, hugging him in greeting. He breathes out, holding him tighter than he realized he would – almost clinging. It’s been so long. He knew Porthos would come back – refused, flatly, to accept any universe where Porthos dies before him, where Porthos dies away from him – but it was still difficult not to worry about him in the months he’s been away. He holds him tight, feels the swell of Porthos’ breath, the beat of his heart, the flat of his palms against Aramis’ back.

Slowly, they part. Porthos smiles, soft and sad, and reaches out to feel at the lapel of Aramis’ robes. It’s with a quiet drop of a stone in his gut that Aramis realizes Porthos has never seen him in his Minister robes before. That the last time he’d have seen these robes was when Treville held the position. Porthos picks off a piece of leaf and lets it drop to the ground. 

Porthos says, quiet, “Your hair’s longer.” 

Aramis stays still, quiet, as Porthos slides his thumb over the ribbon and medallion of his necklace, and then withdraws. 

“I like it when people can run their hands through it,” Aramis says, stupidly. 

Porthos smiles. 

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says, abruptly – and the smile freezes on Porthos’ face, rippling into something more confused. He lifts an eyebrow. Aramis fumbles, frowning, trying to put it to words. 

He isn’t sorry that he can have these moments with his son, can’t be sorry to be able to spend the rest of his days watching over him, being here with Anne. He can’t be sorry for that, can only ever be grateful. But seeing Porthos now, after so many months, after considering the weight of his position – something he’s still adjusting to, the life of a diplomat rather than a soldier. Porthos is watching him now, has seen him wearing the clothes so like Treville’s, walking the same path Treville walked, doing the job that Treville was doing less than a year ago. 

But he can be sorry that the path that brought him here could be so painful for Porthos. Can’t stand to think of Porthos hating him for it, resenting him for it, cursing him when they’re separated like this – months and months away from each other. Porthos at war, without them all. Aramis here, happy and safe. Why shouldn’t Porthos resent him for that, why shouldn’t he—

“What are you talking about?” Porthos prompts, when the silence has stretched on. 

Foolishly, Aramis reaches out and touches the new scar at Porthos’ jaw, traces his thumb over it. 

Porthos rolls his eyes. “What, this? It’s not anything. A recruit caught me off guard.” He smiles a bit, and it touches his eyes. “I didn’t trip over a hedge, at least.”

Aramis makes a noise of distress. “So you _were_ just standing there and watching.” 

Porthos shrugs. “I was there for a few minutes. I didn’t want to interrupt. You two were having fun.” He shrugs again, forced nonchalance. “I’m only sorry I scared the poor kid off.” 

“You didn’t,” Aramis says, shaking his head. “No, once he gets to know you better – he’ll love you. He has to. Anyone would.” 

Porthos sighs out and reaches up, grasping Aramis by his shoulders. “Would you tell me what’s bothering you?” 

Porthos tilts his head, studying Aramis’ face. Aramis stays still, feeling foolish and unlikeable. He can’t summon the question, the words – can’t stomach the idea of confirmation, of seeing the flash of resentment across Porthos’ face. 

Porthos breathes out a sigh, steps back – and Aramis feels his world drop away. But Porthos reaches out, grasps Aramis by the wrist, and tugs him along. 

“Come on,” he says, quiet, “I do have to meet with Her Majesty.” 

They’re walking back towards the palace. Aramis thinks, stupidly, that he hasn’t gotten a chance to kiss Porthos yet. His eyes dart around, glance down at the play-swords left in the grass, the imprints of their feet stuck in the plush earth. 

“Porthos,” Aramis says and Porthos stops, turns to look at him. Aramis breathes in and then out. “I’m sorry.”

Porthos turns to look at him fully. “About what?” 

“That isn’t… how I meant to greet you,” Aramis says. He can’t be sorry he gets these chances to play with his son, only that he should flaunt it in front of Porthos like this – testament to what he’s lost. 

Porthos looks at him for a long moment, waiting for him to say no. Then he sighs out. “Aramis,” he says, “Why would I be angry you’re spending time with him?”

“That isn’t…” Aramis begins.

Porthos shakes his head, cutting him off, “You both looked happy.” He pauses, suddenly looking the flustered one. Porthos looks down, breathing out. “I’m glad you are.” 

Aramis looks down at where Porthos still holds him by the wrist. He slowly tugs his hand so that he can hold Porthos’ hand instead. Porthos doesn’t draw back, and it fuels Aramis on – squeezing it. He can’t hold on for longer, like he wishes, not with so many eyes in the palace potentially being on them. But—

“I thought you’d… hate me for this,” Aramis finally admits. 

Porthos stares at him – and the quiet understanding dawns in his eyes. Aramis holds his breath. Porthos closes his eyes and tips his chin back, face towards the sky. Then he opens his eyes, looking back over towards where the dauphin and Aramis were playing, then up towards the palace, then finally back at Aramis. 

Porthos looks at him – and then offers a small, sad smile. “You know me better than that, you idiot.” 

“But—”

“When I was His Majesty’s age,” Porthos interrupts, “I’d have given anything to have people who love me watching over me.” Anything Aramis was going to say dries up in his mouth. Porthos continues, “Maybe in another life, Treville would have found me earlier. Maybe I’d never have had to be lost in the first place.” 

Porthos looks around again, and Aramis almost doesn’t catch the glint of sun against Porthos’ eyes – teary, for only a moment, before it’s gone and Porthos is strong again. The General. 

“I know plenty of men who’d just abandon their children. Known plenty of kids who felt worthless and unloved.” Porthos breathes out, suddenly far away, years away – remembering himself and all the others, wasting away in back alleys no one cared to look into. Then he says, “It’s good your son never has to feel that, Aramis.”

The breath rushes out of Aramis. This is, he realizes, the first time that Porthos has acknowledged who the dauphin is. 

“Porthos,” Aramis whispers, finds that there’s nothing else he can really say. 

Porthos nods at him, smiles once more, and then turns. “Come on. I’m sure Her Majesty is waiting.”

“Wait,” Aramis says, grabs Porthos by his hand and tugs him off – towards the tall hedges that will block them from view. Once away from the gaze of all the palace’s windows, Aramis leans up and catches Porthos’ mouth against his. 

Porthos kisses him back, small and gentle – sweet, pained. It’s been so long. It feels like kissing him for the first time all over again. Porthos lifts his hands and cups Aramis’ face, thumbs swiping. Aramis breathes him in, indulges – lets himself kiss him for as long as he can get away with. 

Once they part, foreheads pressed together, Porthos still touching his face, Aramis asks, “You’re sure you don’t hate me for this?”

Porthos slides his hands down over his cheeks, thumbs fanning out over his mouth, and then cupping his chin so he can kiss him again in answer. Aramis sighs out and melts against him. 

“I’m glad you’re happy,” Porthos whispers against his mouth. “You deserve that.” 

Aramis isn’t sure if he does, but when they part again, Aramis sees no trace of resentment or anger in Porthos’ eyes – only that same gentle kindness. That hint of longing. In some ways, that’s worse – the thought that Porthos might long for what he saw in the garden, a father playing with swords with his son, the ghost of a world Porthos might have known, had things been different.


End file.
